[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

Sixth C, with my desk right next to it.
Aunt Gwen used to drive me mad by saying  Everything happens for a reason.  God, how I hate that expression. People only use it when something bad has happened
to you, and it never makes you feel any better. I did notice that the one thing that Aunt Gwen did not say  Everything happens for a reason  about was Dan s death.
Even she didn t manage to put a pious spin on that.
But now, reluctantly, those very words are ringing in my head. As I pick up Aunt Gwen s bird-watching binoculars, which I brought in yesterday, and hold them in front
of my eyes, focusing on my desk by the window (one of the worst desks in the room, because its owner is trapped at the far end of a front row), I wonder if maybe
everything does happen for a reason, as now I can focus perfectly on my desk, which is in full view the best desk in the room for surveillance purposes . . .
There s always the chance that someone already nipped back into the classroom and sneaked a replacement envelope into my desk. But hopefully they haven t done
that yet. Hopefully they ll be waiting till the floor empties out, and it s nice and quiet, with much less chance of anyone else entering the classroom just as they lift the lid
of my desk and slide that envelope in. . . .
So I curl up as best as I can on the windowsill, and keep watching.
My hands cramp on the binoculars. My feet go to sleep. My legs get pins and needles.
No matter how much I shift position, I can t get comfortable on this hard, cold stone windowsill.
Half an hour goes by. And still there s no one in the classroom. Bored, I start to train the binoculars on other windows, and then on the school grounds, checking back
on the window next to my desk every minute or so just to make sure I don t miss anything. Oh wow . . . Jase Barnes! When I m sitting at that desk, I spend so much
time looking out the window, trying to spot him. And now I ve got my wish: I m looking at him, and he doesn t know. Spying on him feels weird, naughty, and wrong,
but exciting at the same time. He s walking round the side of the new extension, the big ugly wing my grandmother added in the seventies. Ted Barnes s cottage is back
there, off behind the new building, so maybe that s where he s coming from.
It s the first time I ve seen Jase out of work clothes: he s in jeans and a bright blue shirt that fits him really nicely, and as he strides, his steps long and loose, across the
drive and in through the side door of Wakefield Hall, he looks so gorgeous that I completely forget that I m supposed to be watching my classroom. Only when he
disappears from view do I realize what I m actually here for and guiltily whip the binoculars back to the classroom window again. Also, I realize that my mouth is
actually hanging open. I may even be drooling a bit.
Ooh, movement someone in the classroom! I frantically focus on them, hoping to God that I haven t missed anything while I was ogling Jase. It s Lizzie. She s
carrying the most awful handbag it s gigantic and puke green, glinting with gold studs and tassels and buckles and decorative padlocks. I m sure it s the latest in
designer clothes, but that doesn t make it any less ugly. Lizzie looks exactly like a low-grade pupil at St. Tabby s. She reminds me of the girls further down the social
scale who slavishly copy everything that Plum and Nadia and Venetia wear, but who are just clones, without a personality or style of their own.
Lizzie dumps the horrible handbag down onto her desk, and stares at it for a moment. Oh my God, I think, is it Lizzie? Is she about to reach inside it and pull out a
replacement note for me? Then she does something really unexpected. She sits down behind her desk, puts her arms on it, pushing the bag away, and drops her head
between her arms. For a moment I can t work out what s happening. Then I focus in tighter on her body, and realize that her shoulders are bobbing up and down.
She s crying. Maybe she s just realized how much money she threw away on that atrocity of a bag.
I m joking to make light of the fact that, truthfully, there s something that creeps me out about silently watching someone else cry. I feel like a voyeur of someone else s
pain, and I don t like it. I want to put down the binoculars, but I can t, because of the very slim chance that it might be Lizzie after all, having a sob before she pulls
herself together and leaves me another note after all. . . .
I sigh. My attention slips from crying Lizzie, to wonder instead what Jase is doing in the Wakefield Hall main building. Reporting to my grandmother on the grounds
maintenance, I assume, or something equally dull. But my imagination runs away with me, and I picture Jase taking his time as he walks through the school, on the alert
to see if he ll bump into me, and causing a raging hormonal stir in every girl he passes. . . . God, I m being an idiot to think that Jase might be on the lookout for me.
He could have his pick of any girl here, and he probably flirts with anyone who crosses his path.
There s more movement in the classroom. I snap my attention back, and when I see who s just entered, I suck my breath in sharply.
It s Taylor.
She takes in the scene in front of her, and says something. I see her lips move. Lizzie raises her head and turns to look at Taylor. I can t see her face, but she must have
said something, and something funny, to boot, because Taylor bursts out laughing. Weird. Why is Lizzie crying one minute and making jokes the next? Then Lizzie
pushes her chair back and jumps up. She s gesturing, her head is jerking back and forth: it looks like she s shouting at Taylor. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

  • zanotowane.pl
  • doc.pisz.pl
  • pdf.pisz.pl
  • moje-waterloo.xlx.pl

    •